revenge
by sarcastic commentator
Summary: a three shot. what if Alexander, consumed with grief for his dead son, had challenged Eacker instead of, that one time, throwing away his shot?
1. Philip

**Hi! A three shot this time, because i cannot commit, but it is something! Also, almost everything in italics are song lyrics, to which i take no credit, it all belongs Lin Manuel Miranda, whose genius is amazing! Anyway, here it is!**

George Eaker did not wait for the count of ten. He didn't know why, but he did know that he regretted the decision the moment his traitorous fingers pulled the trigger. It seemed that time slowed down as Philip whipped around, hair flying in his eyes, which widened in poorly concealed terror as he registered the deadly metal orb flying towards him at breakneck speeds. Still, the bullet took enough time, time that Eaker took to properly realise the damage he had created. He noticed Philip's wide eyes, his youthful features. That boy had had a whole life ahead of him, he was running for Mayor of New York*, he had just graduated King's College. The boy had such a bright future. With just a simple movement of his fingers, Eaker had ended that future, and was seeing the lonely, scattered fragments of a once dream slipping through a broken mind. In that split second it took for the bullet to reach Philip's stomach, the tangible shards of a broken life hit him with the force of crushing reality. He knew the memory of his murdering a boy not yet out of his teen years would haunt him for the rest of his years; he knew he would never be able to escape the endless taunts the ghost of a once bright boy, full of hope and joy, would bring with him.

Philip Hamilton was a clever boy, but he never thought things out, never remembered that his actions had consequences. The only thought that had been going through his mind for the past week was _george Eacker insulted my father. He will pay._ He wasn't afraid to say that he hadn't been in his right head as he had challenged the experienced duellist to just that. Still, not even in his darkest of minds had he expected what he viewed as simply a petty squabble to escalate so much. He had never expected to face death in his teen years, in the form of a bullet flying towards his torso on a near abandoned island on the coast of New York. He still had so much to live for.

When he first heard the gunshot strike through silent air, he had thought he had been hallucinating. Nevertheless, he had turned around, to be faced with his imminent death. Time seemed to stop as the bullet flew towards him, getting slower with every metre. Strangely enough, despite the initial shock, he was calm enough to think straight. Not that he was happy about it. Thinking straight meant that he knew about the grief his parents and siblings would feel with his death, he knew about the opportunities he would miss dying so early; he knew he would never get to create his own legacy like his father before him. Still, he was a Hamilton, a calm in the face of any adversary, including death. So, than anything else, he felt an overwhelming sense of tranquility wash over him, trying to get to terms with his own death. Then the bullet hit. The last thing he remembered was unimaginable pain, and the sound of his gun shooting towards the sky. Like he promised his father.

Theodosia Prevost Burr and Philip Hamilton's lives had been intertwined from the start. Both children of the revolution, born after the Battle of Yorktown with only a matter of months separating their ages. They had grown up together, with their mothers close friends and fathers almost nonexistent in their family life. From babies who grew up together, from learning how to walk and talk to beginning tutorage. To rivals who didn't know when to stop, over competitive in everything they participated together in. To friends, who shared everything with each other, and did everything together. To lovers, to soulmates. Nobody had expected the brave, chivalrous Hamilton boy to begin courting the quiet, studious, but undeniably intelligent young Burr. He had proposed, they were set to wed the next winter, both preferring the icy blues and snowflakes that came with a new york winter. Then it had all disappeared.

She had gotten the news by letter, so she really hadn't been worried when she broke the common post office seal, gazing at the usually thick sheaf of papers, the unfamiliar handwriting which sent a pang of worry through her bones. It had been near dusk, so when she had read the letter, which she had then realised was from Mr Alexander Hamilton, she had been going to the library to read it there. The warm, oak panelled floor had barely creaked as she had entered the deserted room. For once, the shelves over shelves of books failed to calm her mind, to sooth her frayed nerves. A candle glowed over the bare desk, sending warm rays over mahogany wood.

 _To miss theodosia Burr…_

Suddenly the bright, exciting future that had once laid ahead for them disappeared; the only thing she saw ahead was the lifeless existence she knew she would be forced to endure as a common housewife. Suddenly, her world went dark as the presence that made all the colours shine faded away, leaving her with barely a husk of the world once was. When Philip Hamilton left the world, a part of her died with him.

Still, time made all the difference. Slowly, her heart hardened, taking with it the last vestiges of the lively, carefree young girl she had once been. Slowly, her smile glazed over, her eyes never changing from the apathetic orbs they had become; looking but never seeing. Slowly, her spirit died off, leaving nothing but the smiling shell of a girl who went through the motions life demanded of her without question. Theodosia never changed.

Angelica Hamilton was, to put it simply, distraught. When the doctor had sent for Elizabeth and Alexander Hamilton, she hadn't thought much of it; one of her siblings was always getting injured here or there, never anything too serious. When they didn't come back with a banged up Alexander jr or John that night, she started to worry. The next day, she woke up to a letter on her bedside table.

 _My dearest, eldest child,_

That was when Angelica knew something had gone horribly, horribly wrong. Philip hadn't come home either, she had simply assumed he was off dallying with some girl. She wasn't the oldest. Philip was. Her parents still weren't home.

 _Your mother and I are terribly sorry to inform you in such an impersonal manner, but Philip was shot during a duel with a George Eaker, and he might not make it to see the next sunrise. Both Eliza and I will not be home for the next two days, I expect you to take care of the children._

 _Your loving parents, Alexander and Elizabeth Hamilton._

She wasn't ashamed to say it took her over ten minutes to read the short letter, her eyes blurring with tears before she had gotten to the second line. Philip had been - he had been the one thing she could always count on. He had been the brightness in her lightless day. He had been her older brother, the one who would protect her through thick and thin. He had been her best friend. He had been her everything.

When her siblings eventually found her, curious as to where their parents and older brother were, she was at the piano, staring numble into space as her fingers played on muscle memory alone.

' _Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six sept, huit neuf,_

 _Sept, huit…'_

They hadn't really found her, and they never would. She was gone, staring off into space and withering away from the loss of the one person that encompassed her will to live.

When Eliza hamilton had been rushed to her sister's house, she still hadn't all the facts. All she had known was that her eldest son had been shot in a duel with George Eaker, and that he was bleeding out in her older sister's bed. That was more than enough. The carriage ride was too long, and too alone. Alexander was yet to contact her, and she could only hope that at least he was at Philip's bedside.

' _Is he breathing, is he going to survive this?'_

She managed to gasp out as she stumbled into the mansion, acting like a madwoman but not really caring. Angelica was there, when she needed her, and simply gave her a shoulder to lean on as she led Eliza to where Philip was resting. Teartracks marred her cheeks. Her husband was leaning over the plush pillows, his entire body spasming eratically. For once, he seemed utterly shaken, all his defences failing him.

Philip's eyes were blurred with pain, but he managed to register Eliza's entrance.

' _Mum, I'm so sorry,_

 _for forgetting,_

 _what you taught me,'_

He said, his voice surprisingly clear, even as she saw the life fading from his usually warm brown eyes.

' _I taught you piano,'_

Eliza smiled, clinging to the small bit of warmth the memory provided. The doctor came in, but did nothing.

'I'm afraid there's nothing I can do, you have maybe five more minutes to say goodbye,' the doctor said gravely before leaving the room once and for all. Angelica left also, after pressing one last kiss to her nephew's forehead. The Hamilton family was distraught, both Alexander and Eliza were weeping, clinging onto each other, and in their moment of weakness, unwittingly, Eliza forgave him. Family is so fragile, and it all go away so, so, quickly.

' _Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept, huit, neuf,'_

' _Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept, huit, neuf,'_

Together, the mother and child sang as the last moments of Philip's life slipped by.

' _Aaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh,'_

Alexander Hamilton was to blame. He was the one who told Philip to shoot for the sky. He was the one who said that duels were simply matters of honour. He was the one who said there was nothing to worry about. He was the one who sent his eldest son to his death without a second thought. If he hadn't been so very sensitive, so very paranoid of the slightest dent to his legacy, he could have saved a life, saved his son's life. If he hadn't been obsessed with being a man of honour, a family of honour, he could have saved his son's life.

Alexander had been working for his Report on Finances* when Philip burst through the maple door, his hair tousled and his manner frantic.

' _Pops, you should have heard what he said,'_

Philip had yelled in a manner most unlike him. Alexander was understandably worried, though not nearly as much as he should have been, he realised afterword.

' _slow down,'_

' _I came to ask you for your advice, this is my very first duel, they don't exactly cover this subject in boarding school!'_

At least that should have rung off the warning bells in his head, ones that usually went off with the very slightest touch. Instead, he did something that would create a memory that would haunt him to his grave.

'alright, son, what happened,'

'he disparaged your legacy in front of a crowd, I just tried to do what you would have done had you been there.'

Alexander sighed, he had to have had a son with the same hot-headed temperament as he had, didn't he?

'alright, duels are simply a matter of honour and most of the time, no one shoots. Remember, put your words to good use, _tell_ him why he is in the wrong and you'll most likely be safe, but if it comes to blows, _fire your weapon in the air. This will put an end to the whole affair.'_

Philip was nineteen. He was a well-educated young man, and by the time he was nineteen, Alexander was on a ship to New York. Philip could handle the duel…couldn't he? Alexander wishes he had had the guts to tell his son _no_. he couldn't help but wonder, had Eliza been there, she would have been able to be the brave one (she always was, he understood that now) nothing would have happened, and he wouldn't have been in this mess.

Still, Philip had simply nodded gravely, accepting his father's gun and heading from his office with a new, purposeful spring to his step.

 _I'm afraid your son Philip has been fatally shot during his duel with George Eacker, he isn't expected to live to see the next day break._

The words rung around in Alexander's unusually empty mind with an almost tangible echo. His body was on auto-pilot during his long carriage ride to Angelica's place, where Philip was currently resting. His mind was empty, but it didn't seem to hinder his ability to gaze unseeingly at the scenery passing before him. The spell only broke when he saw his son, looking small, weak, wounded, but braver than he had ever seen Philip.

'the second, Price, brought him in half an hour ago, but he has lost a lot of blood as the bullet lodged between his hip and stomach and we can't remove it without destroying vital organs,' the doctor said as he recognised the Hamilton trademark flaming red hair and burning determination.

' _can I see him,'_

The doctor stepped sideways silently, letting the father and son talk privately. The door closed and alexander immediately felt the weight of his actions press against his slumped shoulders. Still, it was Philip who spoke first.

' _I did exactly as you said pops, I held my gun up high,'_

His voice was weak, but it didn't change the fact that Philip was staring death in the face with an unwavering voice. By then, tears were streaking his cheeks in torrents, blurring his vision as he st on the bedside, he hadn't felt so….so _helpless_ since he was sitting in exactly the same spot in the meagre house he shared with his mother and brother in St Croix, watching as the life slipped from his mother's eyes. He was witnessing the same thing happening to his dear boy.

'I'm sure you did everything just right, Philip, you could never, _never_ disappoint me. I am so, so proud of you, my son.' For once, words seemed to evade Alexander as he stared intently at one of the few people who seemed to light up his days simply by being in the same room as him.

That was when Eliza burst in, almost in hysterics as she burst in, sobbing at Philip's bedside.

' _who did this, Alexander did you know?'_

He didn't have the heart to respond, but he knew those words would haunt him for the rest of his days. He simply sat there, clutching his son's clammy hand as the doctor tried in vain to at least alleviate the agonising pain he knew his son was fighting through.

' _un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept, huit, neuf,'_

'… _sept, huit, neuf,'_ Philip released his dying breath.

The scream Eliza let out was one that reverberated through the walls, one that the neighbours, the road heard. One that struck fear and pity into the hearts of the most hardened soldier. One that shook everyone who heard it to the core. One that scraped he throat raw and made her voice hoarse for days. One that encompassed all the pain, the fear, the anger, the regret, she had been feeling ever since that dreaded pamphlet that had ravaged the political country for months. One that Alexander Hamilton had caused in the one he held the most precious in the world.

 **He actually was, irl.**

 **p.s please leave a comment and don't forget to follow and favourite, it would make my day!**


	2. Alexander

**Hi! Sorry everyone for the long wait, so i hope it was worth it! As always please leave a review and tell me what you think, it would make my day, and i would thank you ever s much!**

Everyone has their breaking point. Some are blessed with the patience of a saint, while others are constantly on edge, looking for any reason to lash out, exploding every other minute. Eliza certainly fit into the first category. The things she had been forced to endure day after day would have caused any ordinary woman to break down, wondering what she had done to deserve this fate. Instead, Eliza persevered on, doing all the things Alexander himself was too weak to do without an unkind word. He didn't know what past life he had lived to deserve such an amazing wife. Alexander himself, on the other hand, didn't know which category he fit into. For the first time, he figured himself to be exactly in the middle. However, whatever the case, he knew he had reached his breaking point.

It might have been when he witnessed the life draining from his first born's eyes firsthand. Perhaps as he stood by, helpless and motionless, watching as his daughter, his little Angel who wasn't quite so little anymore, slowly drowning in dark, torturous thoughts; falling into insanity and losing all trace

s of coherent thoughts. Or as he looked into the innocent eyes of Elizabeth Holly, asking where her older brother was, and when he was coming back. Or as, everyday he watched the daughter of his enemy walk around with a broken heart, empty smiled and eyes as sharp as shards of glass and sparkling as much with unshed tears. Eliza's heart had been patched together so many times, always because of him. He was never able to save her, and now it was all finally crashing around him.

Alexander was surrounded by his demons, evil things he had tried to repress ever since that day on St Croix. He walked around in a perpetual cloud that taunted him, filled with the ghosts of his past, of the many people he had tried and failed to save, to help. It seemed that the bodies just kept piling up in his proverbial closet.

Alexander knew he was lost to the mindless lure of revenge, but he couldn't seem to break away from it. After all, once you're in so deep, there is never any going back. It was barely a week from the 24th of november when Alexander Hamilton challenged George Eacker to a duel.

' _Look around, look around, at how lucky you are to be alive right now!'_

Eliza pleaded fruitlessly; she wouldn't try hard, she knew it was pointless. Still it was in her nature to at least _try_ and protect those she loved, so that was exactly what she did.

'Look at where you are, you have come so far! You have achieved success that will be celebrated decades from now. But, the only way you will be remembered, the only way to preserve your legacy is to _stay alive_ right now and _live to fight another day_.'

Eliza couldn't stop herself from feeling the tiniest sparks in her heart. _Maybe i'll be able to save him, maybe I'll be able to help him._ Hoping someday she might be able to stop him from making the biggest mistake of his life. Eliza should have learnt by now that hope only led to worse pain when her plans eventually fell right back down, only adding to the weight she carried around everyday.

'I'm sorry Betsey, I truly am. Still, the deed is done and if I step down now, it will taint my image forever. Whichever way I choose now, I will always be remembered in a darker light than I could have been.' Even if he had lost everything, at least ALexander had his words; his fanciful, flowering words. Still, he knew he would never be able to convince Eliza this time. She couldn't understand and she never would.

'Even if your legacy is tainted, at least you get to stay alive! Time will mend even the deepest scars, and any small mistakes you make will eventually be lost in history anyway!' Elizabeth Hamilton wasn't a selfish person. Still, she had hoped that she might at least get to see her husband outlive her, it was the least he could do, really.

'Don't you see!' Alexander was near hysterical as he tried in vain to explain to his wife the corner he had backed into.

'I can't _do_ anything because if I even take the slightest move, I _will_ go down as either the coward, or the impetuous fool!'

'Won't you already go down as the first political figure to be involved in a public sex scandal, the first one to drag his family into his political life so completely, so horribly?' Eliza asked quietly, calmly. She didn't appreciate the sudden wounded look that appeared on her love's face as she uttered those few, crushing words. She didn't revel in the sudden rush of power she felt flow through her veins. She didn't like it when Alexander visibly crumpled inwards, falling quiet. She didn't see it as a victory when, struck speechless, he retreated into his quarters, eyes red at the corners.

More than anything else, Eliza felt an overwhelming sense of tiredness. She never liked to cause pain, she never thought it necessary. It didn't stop her from seemingly having to hurt everyone she loved most in the world.

 _My Dearest Eliza,_

 _Please let me be the first to offer you the greatest condolences. I knew it was only a matter of time before Alexander did something irrational, but even in my darkest dreams I never thought he would challenge Eacker, without any heed for you. I will be coming back to New York, so if you need or want anything, please reply promptly._

 _God, 'Liza, I am so, so, sorry. I could have warned you...I could have warned you. Just Just remember, I will always be there for you. You have married an Icarus, he has flown too close to the sun and if..._ _ **when**_ _he burns up, you can always count on me, I hope there is something I can do to help ease your pain._

 _Your most affectionate sister, Angelica_

On the 7th of december, 1801, Alexander Hamilton shot George Eacker in the chest on the wind whipped island of Weehawken just across the shore from New York City.

 **Alright, so I took the style of Angelica's writing straight from an authentic letter, so it is as real as I could make it! of course, Alexander never really challenges Eacker, so it's all fiction from now on, just wanted to let you know. so yeah! thanks for reading!**


	3. George

**Hi! Sorry I took so long to uplaod this, but I have been truly swamped with homewrok from all directions! please don't take it out on the stroy, and review, favourite and follow! this is the last installment of revenge, and my first finished story! Proud?**

All throughout his life, George Eacker had been a cautious person. There were always several points of view to look through for every decision, and George liked to look through them all. It was always his goal to die peacefully, after having led a long, happy life. Not even in his worst dreams did he think that he would be on his deathbed at the mere age of nineteen, fire coursing through his veins and thoughts running through his head at the speed of light. He wasn't someone to take a stand, but the one time he did, it came back to bite him; he took a life, and his own life was taken. He was lucky he couldn't psychoanalyse his actions more, _because he'd be dead_. George was generally prepared for every eventual possibility, including his own death. he hadn't however, accounted for the fact that he was laying on a blood-soaked mattress, his family looking at him through veils of tears, knowing he deserved every fiery shot of pain that shot through his body. He had killed someone in cold blood, he deserved everything he got.

'God Dad, never thought it'd be like this, huh?' George never really knew what to say during stressful situations; it seemed as though this qualified as one.

'Oh, my son, my son, I am so proud of you. You didn't deserve this, I promise your death will not go unavenged.' his father uttered quietly, green eyes blazing furiously. It was that thought which sent a jolt of panic up George's fractured spine.

'NO! Promise me, father, that you won't do that, that you will let this go, that you won't continue to further the stack of skeletons in my closet from beyond the grave.' George had never been more serious about anything, and it must have shown, because his father nodded almost immediately, albeit slowly.

His mother, Juliet, rushed into the room, hands aflutter and weeping furiously. His little sister, Margaret, was clutching at mother's sleeve, and George thought he his heart shattered at the sound of her confused whimpers.

'How…' asked his mother, tears running down her wet cheeks.

George felt his own tears slip, 'I'm sorry, Mama, but I deserved it. You were always trying to tell me about ethics, and - and consequences.' his throat was clenching, and George knew he didn't have much strength to keep going. 'I knew it all, but I still cheated. I - I cheated in a game where the stakes were life and death.' He could feel his blood slowing down, the muscle that never tired cramping up. 'I killed him…'

Juliet wasn't able to get another word in before her son's eye's dulled; his last breath coming out in a fast, peaceful burst.

'Mamma, why did Georgie go to sleep?' came a small, puzzled voice from behind her, the pressure on her hand tightening slightly.

'He went to sleep, and ... and, he isn't waking up…' Juliet

There was so much he was yet to do. George hadn't yet told his family about the novel he had been writing in his spare time. George hadn't yet told his father about the new leather belt George had bought him for his birthday. George hadn't yet told his mother about the invitation he had been given to speak at King's college. George hadn't yet told Margaret about her newly painted room, had yet to see the wonder on her face as she gazed at the fresh pink walls George had taken so long to decorate.

Instead, the reaper, in his long black cloak and glowing scythe, carried him from the world of mortals a few years too early. George would have to exist with the bittersweet memories of a half-lived life that he had yet to see fully. It caused phantom pains to run up his translucent spine, his head clear through death, whenever he brought himself to peer upon his grieving family, still finding things he should have been there to show them.

Margaret Eacker was only nine years old when her older brother died. Though she might not understand it all, she did understand that her brother had been needlessly killed. She did understand that he was never coming back, that her big brother had left this world for good. She did understand that it would affect her family in more ways than one, and that the butterfly effect from this would ripple through her entire life. She did understand that it was all Alexander Hamilton's fault.

Her father seemed to agree, for when she asked him how George had been shot, he shook his head, muttering, 'Alexander Hamilton, the rascal never knows when to stop. I thought it was only when he was duelling with words, opposing strong men who knew how to hold their own. I never thought he would stoop to the use of rifles against mere farmers… he had no business to continue the chain of deaths...'

That night, Margaret had crawled into her bed and cried for so long, it felt as if she would drown in a sea of her own tears. her Mama hadn't been much help either, as she had been grieving herself, and was barely in the house at all. Margaret had never felt so completely, utterly, alone.

Her troubles were troubles she should not have had to bear for many more years, and they put enormous tolls upon her young, developing mind. They never seemed to end either. Not two weeks after the family of four lost one of theirs, the voices of her parents drifted up to her room, raised and angry. Her household had been volatile for some time, before it. She didn't think it was so bad that they would continue. Some days later, Mama left and never came back. When she asked her dad, _where is Mama? Why does everyone keep leaving_? The only answers she got were sweet nothings, hollow reassurances saying _Mama's just taking a break. She loves someone else, and maybe she is going to go live with him, I'm sorry, doll._ Her father's voice was laden with sadness, and she decided that families were fragile things that broke much too easily. It might be better if she never got tangled up in the mess of family life altogether.

Alexander had made many mistakes in his life, and every time he made a new one it seemed like things simply couldn't get any worse. They always did. His life had always been rocky, full of ups and downs, but it seemed like things could never get better after this. Eliza had just begun to warm up to him again and now he was afraid she never would; he wouldn't if he was in her position. after he to George what the bastard had done to Philip, Alexander basically estranged himself from his family, so much so that Eliza Holly barely knew who he was.

Alexander had promised Eliza and Philip that, no matter what, his family would always come first in his heart and mind. He had not just broken that promise, he had broken with it the severed bonds of a fraying relationship with everyone he held dear. He didn't know how to fix it, so he did what he always did when faced with a seemingly impossible problem. He worked. He finished writing the Report on the Finance of America which had taken him the previous year to write. He wrote condolence letters to the grieving Eacker family. He worked in his office for days on end, not leaving until the general himself told him to go and get some rest.

Alexander was at his desk, a place filled to the brim with half-full ink pots, dirty bowls, even a blanket and a pillow. He was dead to the world as his quill swept back and forth on the thick parchment, putting his most complex thoughts into simple, eloquent words that won even the best of politicians over. It was then that the thick oak door cracked open, spilling a thin ray of sunlight into the room lit solely by dimming oil lamps,

'A letter for you, Alexander,' his wife stated shortly. She placed the letter onto his already overcrowded desk and walking briskly away from him like his very presence was poison. He didn't deny that it was.

The letter was dirty and tattered with no seal as though it had been delivered by hand. A pang of curiosity struck through his now usual cloud of grief. He opened it carefully.

 _Dear Mr Alexander Hamilton_

The letter began in a scratchy, childlike scrawl.

 _You are not a very nice person. I know that you are a very busy person and that you might not read this, but must tell you that you have made Georgie go away, and Mama's taking a break from me. You probably don't care about my thoughts, but I think that you are mean and that you should know that my family is very unhappy with you. You are a terrible, shortsighted bully._

 _Sincerely, Margaret Julie Eacker,_

 _5 years old._


End file.
